


Cognitive Dissonance

by veritas_st



Series: Nua Aimsiu [5]
Category: Boondock Saints (Movies)
Genre: BDSM, M/M, Twincest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-28
Updated: 2017-04-28
Packaged: 2018-10-24 23:05:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10751625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/veritas_st/pseuds/veritas_st
Summary: Final part of the Nua Aimsiu verse.  Set between movies.





	Cognitive Dissonance

The thing about their Da is that he is so like them its almost impossible to keep anything a secret from him. Murphy is also far too tactile. Its making Connor uneasy as he watches Murphy from across the small kitchen of the tiny house in Ireland. Their sanctuary since they fled America, since they shot Yakavetta live on television. Murphy moves with a grace that Connor forgets he has, a boyish grace though that makes Connor want to smile at the same time that it makes him want to drag Murphy forcibly down the corridor to their tiny room and fuck him into next week.

Murphy seems to hear Connor's thought, because he stops and turns, eyes locking with Connor's over the kitchen table, Da still fiddling with his cigar. Its dangerous, and Murphy has nearly got them caught more than once, but sometimes it can't be helped that he just needs to look at Murphy. Needs to see him. He needs to touch him too but that doesn't happen al that much. Whenever they can. When they're out by themselves, or Da is catching up with friends in the local pub, Connor and Murphy fall on each other, hands and mouths hungry for each other, Connor pushing into Murphy with virtually no prep, trying hard to deny the fact that Murphy winces in pain makes him even harder.

Its one of those times; lying wrapped around each other, drawing patterns on Murphy's skin with his fingers, and Murphy mutters “hey Conn? Remember the fort?” His voice is quiet, muffled by Connor's neck. Connor tightens his fingers around Murphy's arm, presses them in and Murphy arches slightly.

“Yeah Murph. I remember.”

“That was a good fort.” Murphy says. He sounds wistful, and Connor wants to take that away, wants to make him sound happy, like he did in America. And Connor knows it because of Da. Connor feels the same, he loves his Da, but sometimes he just wants Murphy to himself, to lock the door and forget the world as he reminds himself of every last inch of Murphy's skin.

“That it was, mó dheartháir.” _My brother_ , Murphy presses his lips to Connor's neck at the use of Gaelic, breathing over the mark he just kissed. Connor shudders, arms tightening around him and Murphy sighs. 

“We should probably move.” Connor says. Murphy groans but pushes himself up, hand down to Connor to haul him up. Connor kisses him once more, pulls them together, pushes his tongue into Murphy's mouth. Murphy responds in the only way he knows how, with complete abandon. They're naked, standing in the middle of the kitchen, and Connor can't quite ignore the thrill that the thought of being caught sends up his spine. But he pulls away, leans down and throws Murphy's jeans at him. 

“Get dressed.” The jeans hit Murphy square in the chest and he glares. 

“Póg móthoin.” He replies, _kiss my ass_. Connor laughs and Murphy smiles back. 

Sometimes it almost gives him whiplash, the way they can switch back to brothers, but sometimes it makes him smile. Makes him think that they aren't so far gone that they can't come back.

He's pulling his sweater over his head as Da comes back, stumbling through the door, cigar in hand, trailing a few stray flakes of snow and the smell of whiskey through the house. Murphy's eyes lock with Connor's across the room. _Da'll pass out, later Murphy_ , Connor thinks and Murphy nods, catches Da as he trips. Connor watches Murphy manhandles him down the corridor to his room. Hears the muffled grunts, the quiet _thud_ of Da's boots hitting the floor, then Murphy emerges, shuts the door quietly. 

They busy themselves in the kitchen. Spinning around each other, an intricate ballet that only they know the steps to, never getting in the others way, occasionally colliding on purpose, colliding with kisses and touches. Connor relishes these moments, when they are free to just be. Without Da, or the outside world, alone in their own little sanctuary. Murphy seems easier in moments like these too, then tension drained from his body, he's looser, relaxed, muscles slack, and he touches more. 

Connor misses the touches, the simple ones that Murphy would do all the time, almost as if he needed to reassure himself that Connor was still there. As if Connor could actually leave. He's so tied up in Murphy, everything he has and everything he is, is because of Murphy, and there is no way he would ever leave. But Murphy, subconsciously at least, needs to touch.

They stay in the kitchen, dancing round each other, till loud snore float down the hall, and Murphy seems to stiffen with anticipation. Connor looks at him, takes in the widening eyes and the parted lips. Ignores them for a while, wants to see how long he can play this out, because Murphy is always more pliable when Connor makes him wait.

It doesn't take long, Murphy seeming to be itching out of his own skin, leg bouncing under the table.

“Stop.” Murphy does, immediately, and although Connor has come to terms with their new relationship, it still takes his breath away how Murphy obeys him, how Murphy seems to hand over control to Connor. Connor is well aware that Murphy has far more control that Connor has. 

“Conn.” Murphy's voice is quiet, pleading and his eyes look up into Connor's. They're wide and full of promise and Connor hauls him to his feet, kisses him hard and pushes him towards the bedroom. Murphy goes willingly, feet slightly tripping over themselves as he goes. And Connor presses his fists into his thighs to ground himself, Murphy always makes him light headed, always makes him feel like he's free falling. 

Murphy is waiting for him, sitting on his bed with his hands cradled on his lap. He goes to stand when Connor leans against the door frame but Connor shakes his head and Murphy stills. Connor takes a step forward and reaches out, pulls of Murphy's sweater. Murphy lifts his face, and Connor leans down, presses a kiss to Murphy's lips, winds his hands into his hair and pulls back, watches Murphy's eyes slide shut as Connor pulls slightly. Connor unwinds his hands and pushes Murphy back, presses him into the mattress and stands. Murphy whimpers, but is then silent when Connor covers his mouth with his hand.

“No noise.” Murphy nods, tongue slipping out to lick at Connor's palm. “Take off your jeans.” Murphy's hands shake slightly as he pops the button and pushes them down his thighs. Connor pulls them off though, throwing them to the floor as he leans back against the wall and crosses his arms. Murphy waits, lying still, save for his fists clenching by his sides. His skin seems to shine in the dim light. Connor can see the tenting of his boxers already, his mouth waters. 

“Touch yourself Murph.” His voice sounds alien to even him, its dark and sounds like he's been shouting for hours, his mouth feels dry. Murphy swallows, Connor watches the movement, and then moves his hand, pushes it under the waistband of his boxers. Connor can imagine Murphy's long fingers curled around his cock and he suddenly has to see. “Let me see.” Murphy's hips twitch, but he stops and pushes his boxers down his thighs, wraps his hand around his cock again and strokes, twists his hand on the upstroke, swipes a thumb over the head. He bites his bottom lip, white teeth digging into the plush pink lip. Connor fights with himself to stay still, because no matter how much he wants to touch Murphy, his palms itch, watching Murphy bring himself to the edge is something that Connor never wants to miss. 

Murphy touches himself like Connor used to. Before Connor had Murphy to touch him. It reminds Connor of their connection. He's got past the shame and guilt of being brothers, it makes sense to both of them that they would gravitate towards each other like this, but the connection between them is something that Connor can never get over. Not that he would ever want to.

Murphy twists his hands again and his hips leave the bed, chasing the friction and the muscles in his thighs quiver as he gets himself under control again. Connor knows that he's close though, can smell it in the air, see it in the way his muscles move under his skin, the way his hand falters.

“Murphy, stop.” Murphy bites of a whimper but stops moving, his hand still wrapped around himself. He opens his eyes and watches as Connor strips off his sweater and jeans, moving towards him as if in a trance. Connor feels drawn to Murphy, like even if their Da wasn't passed out in the next room he would still be covering Murphy with his body and running his hands up Murphy's thighs and rolling his hips into Murphy's. Murphy arches up into him, neck bared, and Connor leans down, licks a stripe up Murphy's neck, bites gently into the skin, Murphy's breath hitches. 

Murphy doesn't ask for things in words. He asks with his hands, with looks and with sounds, but never with words. Connor understands him though, and so he pushes two fingers into Murphy's mouth. Murphy's tongue curls around them, licks the sensitive skin between them. Connor pulls them out with a pop and Murphy licks his lips, almost like he can still taste Connor's skin. Connor leans down and kisses him. Murphy lifts a leg, wraps it round Connor, and Connor pushes his fingers inside. Murphy arches, mouth still connected with Connor's, and Connor swallows his moan as he curls his fingers. Murphy breaks the kiss with a harsh fuck, his hands clutching at Connor's shoulders. 

Connor wants nothing more than to stay like this for hours, watching the sweat glistening on Murphy's skin, Murphy's eyes flutter, and the way his throat looks when he swallows. His reaches between them and wraps his other hand around Murphy. Murphy practically jumps off the bed, gets himself under control, groans as Connor squeezes once, twists his hand. Then he's coming, hot over Connor's hand, body seizing, breath caught in his throat.

Connor leans down again and kisses him, kisses Murphy's heavy breathing right from his chest. Murphy's body is warm and Connor uses his come to slick himself up, pushes deep into Murphy's pliant, willing body. Murphy's eyes are still closed, but he knows exactly where to put his hands, lifts them to Connor's shoulders and just holds on as Connor pushes in and out.

“Dheartháir.” _Brother_. Murphy whispers the word between them, short fingernails digging into Connor's shoulders and Connor comes, hard enough to see stars, buried deep Murphy. Murphy pulls him down, wraps his arms around Connor, his legs still wrapped around him. Connor can feel the muscles inside Murphy twitch, his burning up inside and Connor wants to stay like forever. But he moves, pulls out, only a hint of a wince from Murphy, and pulls them together. 

Murphy lightly traces the new tattoo on Connor's back with his finger tips. Another thing that draws them closer together, another thing to bind them to each other.

“Love you Conn.” He mutters, voice thick with sleep. Connor runs his hand over Murphy's face, fingers trailing over Murphy's lips, Murphy licks at the tips before Connor cups his face and kisses him. 

“Love you too Murph.” He says. He stays wrapped around Murphy until Murphy's breathing evens out and his body goes slack, fingers resting over Jesus' heart on Connor's back. Connor moves then, quietly untangles himself from Murphy's grip and slides between the cold sheets of his own bed. 

His fathers snores travel through the wall between them. But its Murphy he hears. Connor falls asleep with the taste of Murphy on his tongue and the sound of his soft breathing in his ears.


End file.
